


Revelation

by wingthing



Series: The EQ Alternaverse [45]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: EQ Alternaverse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:05:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingthing/pseuds/wingthing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>10,000 years after the First Quest, Abode prepares for the Reappearance of the Palace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelation

“Chieftess highthing, chieftess highthing! No more stillquiet! Wakey-wakey time!” 

Venka, Blood of Eleven Chiefs, mumbled a denial into her pillow. The Preserver landed on her bare shoulder, poking her with its claws. 

“Up now! Silverbaby highthing already bounce-bounce like bushytail!” 

“I’m NOT a baby!” came the call from outside the bed-curtains. 

Venka lifted her head from the pillow reluctantly, and swatted at the Preserver, “Unh… good morning, Bluestar,” she called through the curtains. At her side, she heard her lifemate turn over with a stifled moan. 

“You’re up, good,” the child called. “Let’s get going! The market’s gonna open any minute now!” 

“Patience, little one. The market runs for a whole month.” 

“But they might run out of the good stuff!” 

Zhantee turned a sleepy smile towards his lifemate. “We’ll be up in a few moments,” he promised the cub beyond the curtain. “Why don’t you set out a little food while we dress? Waterleaf can help you. Isn’t that right, Waterleaf?” 

But the Preserver had flown up to rest on a little shelf out of arm’s reach. “Waterleaf stay. Keep highthings wide-wake!” 

Venka rolled onto her back and rubbed at her eyes. “Unh… a whole year of this?” 

Zhantee chuckled at her predicament. “Nothing you can’t handle, chieftess,” he assured her with a pat to the arm. 

“Up now!” Waterleaf insisted. “Highthings do!” 

Venka seized her pillow and lobbed it at the Preserver’s head. Waterleaf flew off its perch, laughing and trilling. Venka moaned softly while Zhantee tried to smother a laugh. 

* * * 

Bluestar skipped ahead of his great-aunt and uncle, his eyes wide as he took in all the sights of the Grandfather Tree. He had briefly toured the ground of the holt on his arrival the night before, but the Tree had a whole different character by daylight. The canopy filtered the sunlight, turning it faintly green, but even in the shade, the light was strong enough to bring out the new and wonderful colors of the rainforest. What had seemed like a wash of cool shadows in darkness was now a riot of clashing shades: bright pink flowers growing on the creeper vines; blue-winged butterflies fluttering between the branches; tiny frogs the color of candleflame lapping up the morning dew. And the sounds: birds chirping, elves laughing; the steady drip-drip of water, the distant cries of howlers monkeys – to a child raised in the uniform serenity of the Great Egg, it was a feast for the senses. 

He was the luckiest elf on the World of Two Moons, he decided. Only eight years old and at the start of a quest that would take him all over the world. First, a year in the Great Holt: he would study in the Palace with his great-grandfathers and learn all the secrets of the rainforest; he would even get to walk the fabled Skywalk all the way through the forest to the coast – days of walking without ever setting foot on the ground. Then, when he turned nine, he would visit the elves at Green Moon Bay, in turn to catch a ride on the Sea Holt. He’d spend a year at sea with the Waveriders, before going to the New Land to visit Oasis and the Evertree. Then it was back across the sea in time for the greatest moment in elfin history – the long-awaited night when the Palace would appear – ever so briefly – over Thorny Mountain before crashing in the distant past. 

The Night of the Two Palaces, some called it. The Reappearance, according to others. The Firstcoming, to still others. All elves who understood their history had been awaiting that night… twenty thousand years in the making. And he would get to see it up close, alongside his parents. 

But not yet. Mother always said he couldn’t properly understand their kind’s beginnings until he had seen what they had achieved now. And his lessons would begin in the Great Holt, with the month-long trader’s market that united elves and trolls from all over the World of Two Moons. 

“Hey,” Bluestar protested, as he plucked a strand of wrapstuff of his back. “No stickyrope!” 

“Waterleaf keep silverbaby highthing safe!” the Preserver insisted. “No hangeydown-tumble.” 

“I’m not a cub – I don’t need a leash!” 

“And if Waterleaf let you walk off a tree-branch, your mother would never forgive it,” Venka said gently. “Or me.” She held out her hand for Bluestar. “Stay close by us. At least until you can keep your eyes on what’s in front of you.” 

Only then did he notice he had in fact strayed dangerously close to the edge of the walkway. His head reeled as he stared down at the forest floor, and the elves, as small as toys, milling below. He was used to heights – he had grown up in the rugged peaks of the Painted Mountains. But he was also used to handrails! 

He obediently returned to his aunt’s side and took the proferred hand with as much dignity as he could manage. Zhantee held out his hand too, and Bluestar accepted. Safely between the adults, he could better manage their pace. “Do you even know where you’re going?” Venka challenged with a smile as he hauled them along. 

“Of course I do! The market’s over there – I can hear all the noise.” 

They came to a spiral staircase, woven together from branches and vines and fixed to the Tree by years of symbiosis. Bluestar hopped from step to step, giggling as the structure swayed slightly. 

“See how the snakevine keeps the stairs bound to the tree trunk?” Venka said. “The Grandfather Tree is actually made of many trees – sleeper-banyan, golden orchid, snakevine and treewee-pod. Each plays its part to keep us all safe and happy.” 

“Uh-huh.” Bluestar kicked up his feet on the last step and hung from their arms. Zhantee laughed and pulled up, giving him a swing. 

“There have been many Grandfather Trees,” Venka continued. “This current Tree is the fifth incarnation of the Great Holt–” 

“Then shouldn’t it be called the Grandson Tree?” Bluestar swiveled his head to follow the flight of a large butterfly. 

“Wolfriders used to speak of a forest’s age as a great span of time. We used to think them as eternal as High Ones. But without mortal blood, elves can easily witness many forests’ journey from birth to death and rebirth. Everything is in a constant stage of change.” 

“Uh-huh. Mother always says. Nothing sits still – so we shouldn’t either,” he tugged at their hands meaningfully. 

But Venka kept a slow, maddening pace as they crossed tree-bridges and platforms. She nodded to passing elves, acknowledged greetings, and continued her lesson in a measure voice. “The former Grandfather Trees aged and died. One was struck by lightning and rotted away in the core. Another suffered a bad attack of mold in its air-roots. The last one burned down during the Year of Ashes. This whole part of the rainforest was destroyed. But sleeper-banyans have deep roots. They can lay dormant for years, until the time is right. And when the forest came back, so did the Tree.” 

“Teru’s your treeshaper, right? Meerkat’s at the College teaching treeshaping right now. She’s got three elves wanting to learn – you should see the trees they’ve made!” 

“Teru’s more of a tree-speaker,” Zhantee explained. “It’s not that he shapes the Tree into what he wishes… more that he guides it. It was his idea to graft the golden orchid onto the Tree – its sap is marvellous for keeping the stinging bugs away. But it’s all done in the tree’s own time. We don’t hurry things here.” 

“You really don’t.” 

“Ah, and there he is now.” Venka steered them over to an exposed cleft in the tree, where two platforms of wood came together. Teru knelt down at the seam between the platforms, carefully scraping off a foam-like growth from the greenish bark. Bluestar noted the resemble between Teru and Zhantee – they were cousins of some sort, but he couldn’t remember exactly how. 

“Trouble?” Venka asked. 

“Just a little pucker-spore,” Teru said. “I’m going to take it to Savin. She can use it to mix up another batch of healer’s paste.” He smiled at up at Bluestar. “And this must be Weatherbird’s little boy. Shade and sweet water, kitling.” 

“Hullo,” Bluestar nodded. “Healer’s paste? Is that like the humans use? The ones at High Hope make this nasty-smelling stuff from mold.” 

“One of our many gifts to the human folk,” Teru said. “Healer’s paste kills off the many tiny germs that cause wounds to fester. Our folk use it too, when a healer can’t be found at hand. Just like feverbane tea. Do you have that at the College?” 

“I dunno. I don’t think anyone ever gets sick in the Egg.” 

“Oh, chieftess, Kimo wants me to tell you – there’s a band of humans crossing the forest just north of the Greenwall. Only three eights: a hunting party by the looks of it. But they are rather close to our borders.” 

Venka nodded thoughtfully. “Indeed. I’ll have Kimo and Dart keep an eye on it. It may be that Dewshine will have to take some of the hunters on patrol.” 

Bluestar tugged on Zhantee’s hand. **Kimo and Dart?** he locksent. **Aren’t they… dead?** 

**Oh yes. Many years now. But they still help out. They serve as fine sentries – the pair of them. I thought you of all cubs would understand – considering your mother’s talents.** 

Bluestar shrugged. He was well aware of the abilities of elfin spirits – he had watched his mother channel enough of them. **I just thought… well, they still have stand watch? I thought once you were dead you could to do what you wanted!** 

Zhantee chuckled aloud. Teru and Venka looked at him. “Nothing. Bluestar was just surprised Kimo and Dart aren’t off having… grander adventures than guard duty.” 

Teru laughed. “Oh, they find their ways to amuse themselves. I can’t even make sense of half the stories Kimo tells me. So, you’re going to market, are you? Well, you be sure to see Tidewink’s carvings – she is the finest wood-carver out of Greywake.” 

Bluestar nodded eagerly. Tidewink, Tidewink, he turned the name over in his head to help him remember. That was a kind of shell, he knew. You could find them all over the beaches in the Islands. Aurek had fashioned the contours of the Egg’s innermost shell after a tidewink’s spiral. 

Biding farewell to Teru, they continued down the stairs that wrapped around and within the main trunk of the Grandfather Tree. Venka pointed out the crumbling stone anchor that formed the core of the trunk. It was almost hidden under centuries of overlapping vines. “Aurek himself raised the pillar, when we re-founded the Holt after the Year of Ashes. And Teru coaxed the Tree to grow up around it. You see how the stone is almost turned to dust now, from the Tree’s weight pressing against it. Soon it will crumble away and leave a great cavity. Then our wolves will have another choice of den in the dry months.” 

At the base of the stairs, the roots had been coaxed into fantastical loops and archways. Flagstone paths unraveled across the forest floor. Multicolored banners hung from the archways, bearing the crests of the different elfin and troll nations who had come to the spring market. As they passed under successive arches, the sounds of joyous activity grew louder, competing with the natural sounds of the forest. Bluestar pulled on his aunt’s hand, forcing her to quicken her pace. 

“Has your mother told you how the yearly market came to be? It actually evolved from a Plainsrunner custom – the hectannual Gathering at Howling Rock.” 

“I don’t think he much cares about the history, lifemate,” Zhantee said. 

“Originally, it was meant simply as a festival,” Venka continued, undaunted. “A chance for gift-giving and idea-sharing. But under the influence of Islander culture – which of course is heavily shaped by exchange with both trolls and humans – it developed into a place of trade and commerce.” 

“Our daughter had something to do with it too,” Zhantee remarked proudly. 

The cub’s smoky-blue eyes widened as the marketplace came into full view. They stood at the top of a wide staircase, overlooking a stone platform that extended all the way across the clearing – easily a hundred paces. But there was little stone to be seen, for the platform was crowded with stalls and tables, all displaying a variety of wares. Bluestar could already smell a dozen new scents – exotic products from all over the world. The colorful banners hung from great posts, advertising each nation’s contribution. A quick head count revealed nearly a hundred elves; a mindboggling number for a cub who had grown up in a house of just ten. 

“Of course, we only trade in indulgences: what you might call ‘luxuries,’” Venka explained. “Food and shelter must always be given freely – even to those who might not necessarily return the kindness. Now… can you look at the colors and tell me which nation is not here?” 

Bluestar huffed an impatient sigh. He loved his Aunt Venka, but she did insist on making everything into a lesson. He scanned the banners quickly; he saw a silver hammer on blue cloth – the crest of Blue Mountain, and an eight-pointed sun with a hawk inside it – Oasis. His own house was represented by a thin banner the color of dreamberries, adorned with a silver egg. A red horse’s head for the Plainsrunners, white-waves-on-blue for the Waveriders, a red ship for the Islands… he even spotted the red talon of Hearthstone and the black tongs of Undermount. Which one was missing? 

“The Evertree,” he declared at length. 

“Well done,” Venka said. She pulled out a thin gold coin she had concealed inside her bracer and offered it to him. “Choose wisely, now. There are a great many folk here who would glad to part a cub from his troll-gold.” 

He turned the coin over in his hands, smiling at the crude wolf’s head stamped into the gold. “Can I go? I’ll meet you back at the den in time for daysleep.” 

“Go on. But take Waterleaf with you.” 

The Preserver flew down and landed on Bluestar’s shoulder. “Look, Waterleaf – gold!” he held up the coin, and Waterleaf make a purring sort of buzz of appreciation. 

He scampered down the steps, but he had barely taken two steps into the crowd when Zhantee caught up with him. **Don’t tell your aunt,** he locksent, as he pressed a weight against Bluestar’s palm. “You take care. We’ll be near by if you need us.” 

Bluestar kept his hand tightly clasped over his gift until he was behind a stall. He opened his hand to reveal another three golden coins. 

He almost didn’t know where to begin. He decided to head for the banner of the College. Elves who saw him coming made way with a silent courtesy; the few trolls who lumbered between stalls made no such allowances for his youth. 

Under the purple banner, he found his cousin Tass seated at a high desk. She had a stack of papers in front of her, and a quill pen that she kept dipping in ink. He stretched up on tiptoes to catch her attention. “Hullo.” 

“Oh, Bluestar,” she smiled distractedly. She was his neighbour and frequent minder at the College – the novelty of seeing him at the Great Holt obviously did not excite her as it did him. But she came back to her birthplace every year. She liked to joke that she had two cubs: Tufts in Oasis, and the Great Market. 

“What are you trading?” he asked. 

“You know very well,” she said with a self-satisfied smirk. “My finest invention.” 

“The trolls invented it!” 

“They invented one type of coin. I invented this kind!” She looked him up and down. “Did my mother give you anything to spend?” 

“One gold wolf,” he said with an innocent smile. 

“Oh, for Freefoot’s sake,” she muttered, and reached into one of her desk’s many drawers. “Here.” She passed him a little leather purse. “One gold wolf,” she repeated contemptuously, with a shake of the head. 

**How much troll-gold do you have in that desk?** 

**Enough.** 

**Has anyone ever tried to steal it?** 

**Once. A troll from Drub’s folk.** 

**What did you do?** 

Tass smirked and tapped her temple with one finger. Bluestar grinned. Tass’s shielding powers were legendary. At the College, he had seen her focus them into a shockwave that could shatter stone. 

He left Tass to her accounts and checked the purse. Added to his horde from Zhantee, it brought his total up to ten gold coins. He looked around for a place to start spending them. 

Behind Tass’s counting-house, the Islanders had set up their shops. He traded one coin for a full bag of crystalsweets, and a silver coin in change. He found Tidewink’s stall and admired the many carvings, ranging in size from large driftwood statues to small pieces that fit in his hand. A sign proudly proclaimed in both elfin and troll script: SHAPED BY HAND, NOT MAGIC. When he asked how she could make such precise marks, Tidewink was glad to show him her tool-kit: her smallest knife had a blackstone blade no thicker than a single hair. Bluestar bought a minature Egg, no bigger than a quail’s egg, to bring home to his parents. 

At the Oasis tables, the merchants had set out lengths of colorful silk in all manners of weights, from the flimsiest moth-fabric to the rich silkfur his parents wore at the College. He eavesdropped on a troll mistress haggling over bolts of zwoot’s wool. He had always imagined zwoots as simply hunched-backed ponies, and he was amazed to feel the softness of their hair, once it was treated and spun into wool. 

The Oasis elves traded in other art pieces: pottery and jewelry and a shiny braided cloth that was made of tiny metal threads. “This is everyone what wears at home!” Bluestar exclaimed, as he fingered a heavy length of silver braid. 

“Ah, an Egg-hatchling, are you?” the vendor asked. He looked at Bluestar curiously for a moment. “Wait… you wouldn’t be Weatherbird’s boy, would you? I’d heard she’d been bitten by the baby-bug at last!” 

“What bug-baby?” Waterleaf asked from its perch on Bluestar’s shoulder. “No bug-baby at egg-home – just Waterleaf and Nutbonnet!” 

“He means Recognition,” Bluestar said. “I’m Bluestar. You know my mother?” 

“Never met her, but our lord Haken always speaks highly of her. Name’s Arshel,” he tapped his hand to his forehead. “Trader one month a year and potter the rest. Maybe one day you can come to Oasis and see our kilnworks.” 

“Oh I am. In two more years. I’m going to stay with Lord Haken – Mother says he’ll help me with my magic.” 

“Well now! You be sure to look me up. I got a boy of my own, about your age. He’ll like having an agemate to play with – there’s only so much fun a lad can have with elves ten times his age.” 

“I will,” Bluestar promised, before he set off for another table. 

He visited all the other nations in turn, looking for treats and remembrances to take home. Mindful of being a good guest, he bought his aunt a little thong of gold-painted leather to hold up her chief’s lock. He spent a whole gold coin to make a wish at the trolls’ Wishing Pot, just to see the look on the guard’s face. He contemplated a fine little dagger until Waterleaf screeched warnings in his ear. 

“No sharp-sharps! Mother-bird highthing says so!” 

He marvelled at an immense sea shell for sale by a Waverider that was almost as large as he was, and asked about a turtle-shell hair ornament that he imagined his mother might like. But it was priced for twelve gold, and he had only eight coins left. 

Instead he bought her a cane woodwhistle from a vendor from Hearthstone. It produced much lower, richer notes than the flute she had back at the Egg. The air was getting hotter and stickier as the morning wore on, and he took off his shirt to use as a bag for his treasures. He moved down the line of tents and tables to examine the wares from Blue Mountain. One troll sold nothing but memory-stones: little serpentine pieces of rubble from the collapsed mountain, said to possess an echo of the First Egg’s magic. An elf who concentrated hard could imprint a memory on the stone – anything for a list of names to a song to a secret – and the rock would hold onto the thought. His parents had warned him about the practice. Residual magic was not a toy. He knew they rather wished Tass would forbide the trolls from selling the trinkets. Tass’s defense was that after ten thousand years, there were precious few stones left that held any real magic in them. More often than not, if a memory-stone worked, it was only because of its owner’s magic, not the First Egg’s. 

Still, Bluestar gave the stall a wide berth. He was far more interested in the clockwork toys that would come to life with the twist of a key. “Special price,” the troll announced when he saw Bluestar examining a little bird with flapping metal wings. “For you, little mump – only five gold!” 

Bluestar frowned. “But your prices say only three gold for the small ones.” 

“Ah! Read trollscript, do you? But this one is actually medium-sized. And the wings are pure copper. That brings the price up. Seven gold for all the birds. But I’ll cut it down to four and a silver for you, since I like a literate elf.” 

Bluestar sniffed the bird’s wing. “This isn’t pure copper.” 

The troll narrowed his beady eyes. “What are you, trollkin? Did the prince go off and breed again without letting us know?” 

Bluestar felt a shadow fall over him. An unfamiliar voice warned in a teasing tone: “Cleftpaw! You’re not trying to cheat my great-grandson, are you?” 

Bluestar’s head swung about. He stared up – and up – at the elf at his side. A heart-shaped face and a pert nose; bright blue eyes and white-gold hair; a curved sword on her hip and a cat’s tooth necklace at her throat. But for the lack of chief’s knot and an extra handspan of height, she matched the statue at the Egg perfectly. 

“Swift…” he breathed in awe, the way he had heard other elves whisper, “Timmain.” 

“No, no, Swift, not all,” the troll grovelled. “I was just explaining–” 

“The sign says three gold for the little ones.” 

“And-and this is medium,” he tried one more time. But the elf’s hand strayed to her hip, fingers just brushing the hilt of New Moon, and the troll added hastily, “but of course, royalty always get a discount. Three gold, Prince Elf,” he said to Bluestar. “Let me just wrap that up properly for you.” 

**You watch yourself,** Swift said to Bluestar with a wink. **A troll will always try to skin you – and those Blue Mountain trolls are the worst!** 

**Yes, Great-grandmother.** 

“Call me Swift.” She hugged him to her side. “You’ve grown since the last time I saw you. And walking now? The years do fly by. How old are you – fifty? A hundred?” 

He giggled. “I’m eight!” 

“Eight!” She feigned shock. “But you look so grown up!” 

“No listen Bigchief high-thing – all sillyspeak,” Waterleaf said sagely. 

“See you still got your bug,” Swift remarked dryly. 

“Uh-huh. Other cubs gets wolf-friends and cat-friends,” he sighed. 

“Don’t forget ‘hook-clawed killer bird-lizard friends.’” 

“Lucky.” 

“Mother!” Venka’s voice rang out, and Swift turned in turn to see her daughter wading through the crowd. Swift laughed and threw her arms out, to sweep her firstborn into a hearty embrace. 

“Venka! How’s it feel to have a cub in the den again?” 

“Ask me again in another month – Mother, when did you get back?” 

“Late last night.” 

“You should have sent.” 

“I didn’t want to wake you.” 

“I thought you and Father were going to be out for at least the next three months?” 

Swift’s face grew solemn. “Changes of plans. When’s the Circle meeting next?” 

Bluestar looked from one elf to the other. Whether Swift had sent something privately, or whether Venka was simply as perceptive as everyone said, he couldn’t be sure. But his great-aunt’s whole demeanor changed. Venka the daughter had been replaced by Venka the chief. “Tomorrow – do you need an audience?” 

“I’m afraid so. The situation up in Djunshold is worse than we thought.” 

* * * 

The Circle of Nine met every eight days, at a different time for each of the nations. In the College, it was at dawn – in the Great Holt and the Islands, midmorning – in the far east of Hearthstone, midnight. Often the meeting was little more than an exchange of greetings, concluded in minutes. Other times Venka would sit in the Palace for hours, her body still, her spirit communing with the leaders of the other eight elfin nations. 

Millennia of practice had made her capable of holding the link without assistance, but today Sunstream joined her in the Scroll Chamber, to help integrate their mother into the Circle. Since taking down her chief’s lock for good, Swift had done much to develop her psychic talents, but her mind was still too earthbound to “go out” without assistance. 

Venka took her seat on a crystal chair and closed her eyes. She visualized herself held down by a great weight, let herself feel the confines of her body, so she could better detach herself from it. When she was ready, she released the weight her spirit held, so that she floated pretty of gravity, into the great weightless silence of the astral plane. For a moment she drifted alone, a single star of thought in the void. Then she felt the pull of the other spirits, drawing her into the circle. 

She took on a spirit-form, a hazy replica of herself, facing the others in the Circle. Directly across from her stood the Firstcomer Haken, Lord of Oasis. Flanking him were his great-grandson Brightmetal, the Prince of Blue Mountain, and his grandson Aurek, Master of the College. Other spirits flickered into existence around them. At Venka’s left, Gypsy Moth appeared, clad in her long-tailed captain’s coat. To Venka’s right, Evergreen’s spirit-shape slowly took shape. As the Circle grew in power, it exerted a pull like a Lodestone, calling to the latecomers to join the communion. 

The next face to appear was a familiar one to them, but one that the greater world had not seen in nearly eight thousand years. As Kit, daughter of Strongbow and Moonshade, took her place in the circle, she locked eyes with Aurek, and her spirit-form shivered. For an instant, her form changed into that of a long-limbed male, and the new elf beamed at Aurek. But with a second shiver, Kit took over again. Aurek smiled and nodded. His son Littlefire could never resist saying a quick hello. 

Halycon appeared next, her spirit flickering slightly – a sign her body was out of breath. She flashed a bashful grin as she took up her place, and her spirit glowed a soft pink. But the last member to appear showed none of Halcyon’s embarrassment. Evergreen’s younger brother Warmask joined the circle with a vaguely bored expression. Sitting at the other end of the world, the Hearthstone elves were halfhearted participants in the Circle. 

“Blessings,” Venka greeted her fellow leaders. “The Circle is complete.” 

“Have we any old business to conclude?” Haken prompted. 

“How is little Bluestar doing?” Aurek asked. 

“Quite well, Aurek. Although at the pace he’s sustaining, he will collapse soon.” 

“He needs his daysleeps,” Aurek warned sternly. “He’ll tell you he doesn’t, but High Ones help you if he don’t make him lie down.” 

Haken cleared his throat loudly. “Personal communion follows new business.” 

“You wait until it’s your turn, Grandfather,” Aurek said with a mischevious twinkle in his eye. “You’ll be ‘going out’ to the Egg every day asking for aid.” 

“I think the Lord of Oasis can handle one elf-child… even one of Weatherbird’s.” 

“Hearthstone rejects the current trade proposal of the Waveriders,” Warmask spoke up. “After consideration, the clans feel a second deep-water port is too hard to defend.” 

Gypsy Moth gave a start. “I thought we settled that–” 

“You and I settled it. Wounding Tooth and Broken Claw have serious objections.” 

“We will build the guardwalls ourselves – we’ll even help run the port for the first five years. How much sweeter can I make the deal?” 

“If you’d like to come Landfall and make your case yourself…” 

“I vote we table this,” Evergreen spoke up. “Let him cool off, Gypsy. You keep feeding that sweet tooth of his, he’ll gobble up all he can.” 

“With the Circle’s permission, I would like to table all old business,” Venka said. “Some very pressing news has come to my attention, regarding the situation in Djunshold.” She waited until she had everyone’s rapt attention, then said, “I call on Swift, Blood of Ten Chiefs, to address the Circle.” 

Swift’s spirit form appeared in the center of the circle. The image flickered repeatedly until it resolved into a clear outline. “Greetings,” Swift said, and the other elves acknowledged her with nods of varying depth. 

“As many of you are aware, Halcyon has called for my help with the humans of Djunsholt. Since the new djun took over, there’s been far too much building going near Thorny Mountain. The Djunsmen have always been a problem. But they hadn’t openly crossed our borders – until last year. Now there is a human town rising on the slopes of Thorny Mountain.” 

“Stars,” Haken moaned. “It’s Howling Rock all over again.” 

“That’s what we feared. But when I spoke to this Grohmul Djun…. I’m afraid it’s worse. Much worse. I think it’s best I share the memory with you all, if you’ll agree. You all need to know what we’re facing…” 

* * * 

“Threksh’t take you, elf-woman!” Grohmul Djun thundered. “I’ll not be threatened in my own citadel!” 

Swift remained calm in the face of his rage. Grohmul Djun was a great bear of a human – even with the extra inches she had gained from her contact with the Palace, she barely came up to his chest. When he roared, the air itself seemed to quake. But Swift would not show fear. Like any bear, the Djun was more bluff than bite. 

“You acknowledged the terms of the Pact the day you put your father in the grave,” she reminded him. “You called yourself Grohmul Djun, Friend to Elves. Now you send men and metal monsters to feast on the forests of our most sacred mountain. Do you forget the words of your own god? ‘The farmlands for men, the wildlands for elves and the underlands for trolls. Three kingdoms for three children. This is Threksh’t’s Gift, and this is our Pact.’” 

He narrowed his eyes. “Are those Threksh’t’s words you quote? Or your own?” 

“Do you doubt your prophets? Your own priests date the Doom of Threksh’t to more than two thousand years ago.” 

“Aye, but who first spoke those words to the prophets? Was it the Voice in the Storm? Or was it an elfin voice, whispering from the trees?” 

After so many years, Swift did not so much as blink at the accusation. Grohmul was hardly the first Djun to suspect the truth. 

“If it’s heresy you prefer, I can speak that tongue as well. Who is to say there is a Voice in the Storm at all? Your prophets, turned to dust long ago? Your priests, growing fat on meat they did not earn? Perhaps Djaar Mornek fell from nothing more than a thunderstorm.” 

“Damn you!” the Djun cried, drawing his sword and swinging it overhead. Swift remained standing, utterly unfazed, as the blade came down and bounced off the invisible shield. 

“‘The farmlands for men, the wildlands for elves,’” Swift reminded him. “Your ancestors forgot those words, to their cost.” 

**A little thanks would not go amiss,** came Rayek’s sending, from the rafters above. 

**You know I love you,** Swift sent back. 

“You were there, weren’t you? Su’iff,” the Djun slurred an approximation of her name in his barbarous accent. “Your kind slaughtered them all with your black magic.” 

“Threksh’t,” she corrected. “The Voice in the Storm spoke, and the walls of Djaar Mornek crumbled, and every man, woman and child was cast into the doom-pit.” 

“You have manipulated us from the start. You use our own faith against us. Well, we in Djunshold have a new faith, and a new sacred text. One far more pleasing to the human ear.” 

He stalked over to the heavy book propped open on a lectern. Swift took note of the gold-embossed leather and the illuminated pages Grohmul Djun turned furiously. It looked like a copy of the Doom of Threksh’t – the one book even the illiterate human cherished more than his own hide. But when the Djun stabbed his finger on a passage and read it aloud, the words were nothing like those composed by Savin, so many years ago. 

“‘And Threksh’t made the world, and all the creatures it in. And he created three great kingdoms, one for each of his children. To the humans – the firstborn – went the earth and all its lands, wild and tamed alike. To the trolls – the crippled sons – went the underlands, so that they could hide from their shame. To the elves went the sky – for they were the youngest of Threksh’t’s children, and those closest in form to him. But the elves were not content with their inheritance. Their glowing eyes envied the earth, and they descended in a storm to destroy the men with thunder and skyfire. And they spread across the earth like locust, and forced the firstborn to squat in the meanest corners of the world.’ There – what do you think of that, elf?” 

A shiver went through Swift. “I have never heard these words before,” she said, struggling to keep her voice level. 

But she had. The Children of Gotara had held much the same beliefs, back when humans could still dimly remember a time before elves. 

“They are the Words of H’saka,” the Djun said proudly. “And they reveal the truth your kind has tried for so long to keep secret.” 

“Who is this H’saka? Another of your gold-skirted priests?” 

“Fool! She is the War Witch – Threksh’t’s misbegotten daughter. Cast into the doom-pit on the eighth day of creation – but She crawled out, and She has been sowing discord among His sons ever since. Wars, plagues, all find their root in H’saka’s fury. And one day soon – very soon – She will call down the wrath of Her great father, and Threksh’t will reveal Himself to us all again.” 

Swift scowled. **Rayek?** she asked. 

**Didn’t Halcyon mention yet another cult of death taking hold upriver? After the last outbreak of ‘the rot.’ Was that this War Witch?** 

**I can never keep them straight.** Humans all seemed fascinated with death; it was their bane and their lovemate all at once. Rather than waiting for their end to come to them, they rushed to embrace it. 

“I have never heard of this H’saka,” Swift said. “She is not in the Doom of Threksh’t.” 

“She is now. I have instructed all my scribes to add the Words to the sacred text.” 

“How did you hear of her? Is she another god from across the sea? Like Manach?” Gypsy Moth and her Waveriders had kept the humans off the seas for as long as possible, but in the past hundred years, many human ships had made the crossing between New Land and Homeland. The Maimed One now had a temple in Port Bane, and the Plainsrunner elves were doing their best to see Manach-worship spread to the surrounding kingdoms. Swift didn’t entirely agree with this course, but she understood it; if the humans had to have a god to fear, better it be one with an elfin face. 

“Manach!” the Djun roared, and spat to show his scorn. “A false demon, nothing more. An elfin lord masquerading as a god.” 

This one’s arrows all fly a little too true, Swift thought grimly. 

“H’saka has always been among us, creeping in the shadows. But it is only now, as the night of nights approaches, that She has revealed herself. She calls into the Storm, daring her father to face her.” 

“What does any of this have to do with the Haunted Mountain?” Swift demanded. 

Grohmul gave her an oily smile. “Why is that mountain so sacred to you, elf? Neither the Doom nor the Codes of Threksh’t explain it.” 

“That is none of your concern. I do not need to know why your holy number is twelve, or why you won’t speak the name of the First Djun.” 

“I have heard it said… by many learned men, that the Haunted Mountain is where Threksh’t’s finger first touched the earth with skyfire.” 

“Only because your learned men grew up in its shadow. The Longriders believe the same thing of Khulki’s Mountain, and the Ujjals will tell you the world began at Mount Dawn.” 

“The Words of H’saka speak of the elves first alighting on a mountain… tell me, is it the Haunted Mountain?” 

Swift swallowed the hard lump of dread that had formed in her throat. “All you need know is that we will defend what is ours. As we did with Howling Rock.” 

“Djaar Mornek!” 

“Call it what you will. I call it ‘rubble.’” Swift was letting her anger get the better of her, but she could not help it. What was distant history to the humans was still a fresh wound to her. And the Djun’s insightful guesses only goaded her further. “Your ancestors took the Rock and slaughtered the elves who lived there – my kin, my friends! And yes, I was there when we showed humans the price of breaking the Pact! If you do not remove your men from the base of Thorny Mountain by the winter solstice, I promise you, you will hear the Voice in the Storm again – and it will be my voice! And the storm won’t be over the Haunted Mountain, but you’re your citadel itself!” 

Grohmul Djun regarded her carefully. “I think I believe you, point-ears. But your threats do not frighten me. I have pledged myself to H’saka, and I have Her assurance. I will live to see the night of nights. After that, nothing matters – not threats, not fears, not all the skyfire in the heavens.” 

“Threksh’t’s return – is that soon? He’s taken his sweet time, this god of yours.” 

“That He has. Many years: twelve by twelve… by twelve by twelve. The circle is closing, and the Revelation approaches. It is less than three winters away.” 

Swift felt all the blood drain from her face. Grohmul Djun saw it and his cruel smile returned. “Yes, she-elf, we have been awaiting it too. The Revelation: the end of the world. Well… your world, anyway.” Before Swift’s terror-stricken mind could formulate a retort, Grohmul Djun raised his voice and barked: “Guards!” and a dozen soldiers burst into the room, weapons brandished. 

* * * 

“He knows of the Palace?!” Haken exclaimed. “And you let him live!” 

“We barely saved our own skins – nevermind taking his. You might have the power to strike down foes from inside a shield, but I don’t. And Rayek pushed his powers to the limit holding the shield and floating us out of the citadel.” 

Haken stabbed an accusing finger at Halcyon. “This is all your fault! Your Plainsrunners – trading with humans, living alongside them – you treat them as tame beasts. I thought you would have learned your lesson after Howling Rock. I’d wager one of your loose-lipped halfwits spat out the secret to a whole alehouse of humans!” 

“You can’t claim that,” Halcyon protested. “You know my kin have little knowledge in the Palace. Half of the Plainsrunners don’t even know about the Reappearance. And the half that do can’t begin to understand it.” 

“Can you? The defining moment of our collective history is fast approaching. Even now, out among the stars, the Firstcomers are preparing a course for this two-mooned world. I am preparing a course. In three years’ time the burrower-apes will rebel and the Homeshell will be thrown back in time. It must be thrown back in time. All must be as I remember it. You know this, Venka! Your own father foresaw the consequences of even the slightest disturbance in the flow of events.” 

Venka nodded gravely. “If the Palace does not appear over Thorny Mountain on time… or if its path through time is somehow changed… it would mean the end of us all.” 

“Well, not him,” Warmask remarked dryly, nodding towards Haken. “Actually, he’d come out of it one arm ahead.” 

“My arm?! Is my arm worth more than half the years of my life? My mate, my children and the thousand descendents alive and dead? Make no mistake, scale-rider, if the time-thread is cut, I will cease to exist. For I am no more the Haken that lives now in the Homeshell than you are the seed that sprouted in your mother’s womb.” 

“Just… trying to lighten the mood,” Warmask muttered. “Ass.” 

“We must destroy this Djun,” Haken continued. “Take the Palace and obliterate the citadel, as we did Howling Rock. Once the lord is dead, the flock will fall into disarray.” 

“And how do we know that won’t make things worse?” Swift asked. “The Djun carried on like this War Witch already has a following – if we kill him and half his kingdom, the survivors might just decide H’saka’s right, and it’s the end of days. We could have half of Djunshold crowding on Thorny Mountain waiting to get a glimpse of Threksh’t.” 

“Then we destroy all of Djunshold!” 

“That’s a bit… much, isn’t it?” Brightmetal remarked. “I mean… that’s a lot of people.” 

“Humans! We should have exterminated them from the face of this world long ago.” 

“That’s hardly fair,” Kit spoke up. “They have more of a right to it than we do.” 

“And where were those words of wisdom when I first proposed abandoning this world? We had ample time to flee this wretched sphere, but you: children of the two moons – you all voted to stay here, to share the world with the humans.” 

“It’s too late for regrets,” Venka said. 

“But not too late for action. If we destroy our enemy now –” 

“What will the Firstcomers think?” Venka interrupted. “Aside from the morality of such a slaughter – the power it would take to obliterate Djunshold would surely be felt by the Firstcomers’ Circle. How would that discovery alter their choices? Would they choose to come here at all?” 

Haken was silent. Venka had struck on a genuine threat. “We… we cannot do nothing.” 

“But that is precisely what we must endeavor to do, All-Father,” she went on. “You have said yourself – the time-thread cannot be cut. That means all must be left to unfold as it did once before… as it will now. All the Firstcomers have agreed – you, Timmain,” she glanced at Evergreen and Warmask, “Mura… all the High Ones in body and spirit. The safest course is one of the least intervention.” 

“Lord Haken,” Kit said. “Why did the Firstcomers choose the time and place you did? What was it specifically about Thorny Mountain in three years time?” 

“Time… the time was incidental. It was simply when we chanced to pass through the star system. But the place… it was our custom to send out spirits to inspect worlds for signs of intelligent life. Adya was the one send ‘out’ to observe this world. He could not linger long overhead – the draining effect of this world was evident even then. But he was struck by how the shared legends of the humans seemed to refer to immortal beings like ourselves. There seemed to be a great reverence for these spirits around Thorny Mountain. To judge by their art and their lore, the humans there were especially fond of wood spirits – of elves and trolls. We took shapes to match those images, and we transformed our shell into a palace. It was all decided in moments.” 

“Grohmul Djun said H’saka is a daughter of their god – perhaps she is a being like an elf,” Swift theorized. “Perhaps this worship of the War Witch is part of what caught Adya’s attention. We should investigate it further.” 

“I believe Mother is right,” Venka said. “It may well be that this new development – the human anticipation of a godly ‘revelation’ is what was always meant to happen. By interfering with it we may be causing the very disturbance we wish to prevent. I recommend caution for now. Aurek, I think you and Weatherbird need to have serious council with Timmain.” 

Haken let out a snort of derision. Venka ignored him. “Sunstream will contact the other Firstcomers. If necessary, Weatherbird can join him to lend her aid. We will compile detailed accounts of everything the Firstcomers saw and thought – firsthand memories, not the shared vision of the Scroll of Colors. There may be some new insight to be discovered in the slightest detail. As for the rest of us: Mother, I think your idea has merit – we should find out more about this H’saka and the beliefs surrounding her.” 

“I can call up all my current contacts at Crest Point and Port Bane,” Evergreen said. “Gypsy – you heard anything from Cam Triompe lately?” 

“Nope, but the Sea Holt’s at anchor just offshore of Port Passage. This time of year, he’s probably sitting out the monsoon at that little tavern on Brine Creek. I’ll go shake him down for information.” 

“Gently, will you?” Warmask said. “He’s one of ours, you know.” 

“Light as a feather,” Gypsy Moth promised. 

Venka looked at Haken. He was quietly seething with frustration. “Lord Haken,” she said, “as we prepare for this plan, I think it is time you plan for another. My father once had a plan, long ago, to gather every elf and troll inside the Palace, and join our Palace to the Firstcomers’ at the moment of its appearance, thus preventing the troll’s rebellion. But he had no idea how to implement it safely. I wonder if you might consent to revisit such a plan with him and Skywise.” 

“Gather every elf on the world – and the trolls too?” Haken blurted out. “We haven’t the room. Not even if we absorbed the entire structure of the Egg!” 

“Then I would ask you to calculate how many we can save – should it come to that. In the event we fail and the time-thread is cut, we must be able to preserve something of our time on this world.” 

“And who would you choose to save, and who to sacrifice?” 

“That is not a choice any one of us can make alone. But that is a discussion for another day. We have other riddles to unravel first.” 

“Very well. I will look at Rayek’s riddle. But do not think you have done anything more than postpone this debate for another day. I intend to survive this… Revelation. Whether the rest of Abode does depends on the choices you are all willing to make.” 

* * * 

“That was a wise path to tread, daughter,” Swift told Venka as they emerged from their trance. “Haken needs to be kept occupied, or his temper could be the undoing of us all.” 

Venka sighed. “He grows more restless the closer we come to the day of the Reappearance. Sometimes I rather wish we could cocoon him until the day had passed. But who knows, Haken may have a crucial role to play in this… what did the Djun call it – the night of nights?” 

Sunstream let out a low whistle. “That’s grim.” 

“I don’t know – it sounds like one of Pike’s howls,” Venka said wistfully. “The night of nights… when the stars come down to earth to dance....” 

“You’re getting sentimental in your old age,” Swift teased. 

“Mm. There are worse faults for a chief to have.” Her face grew solemn. “Mother, Sunstream… I wouldn’t ask you this in front of the Circle. But the Scroll of Colors can show the future as well as the past. Has anyone… looked for our path ahead?” 

Sunstream’s cheeks flushed a dark bronze, and he looked away. **Malin?** Venka locksent. 

“I’ve looked,” Sunstream admitted. “I’ve been looking… for years now. Even thought I knew the Scroll couldn’t show anything until we got closer. It’s only the last five years that I’ve been able to see anything. It’s really hazy… but since Mother and Father came back from Djunshold… it’s getting clearer.” 

**Do I want to know?** Venka asked. 

**There are three possible futures: all equally likely. In one, everything happens as the Firstcomers remember. In another, something changes – a decision made a split-second sooner… a different path chosen. One thread pulled out, and a whole tapestry of our history unravels. Different elves are born, different battles are fought – some of us might survive unscathed, some of us might become different souls entirely.** 

**And some of us might never be born,** Venka finished, shuddering at the thought. 

**Yes.** 

**Three future, you said. What’s the third?** 

Swift answered when Sunstream could not. **The end of our world. The Palace is utterly destroyed. And our kind will have neither past nor future.**

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the full EQ Alternaverse at http://www.janesenese.com/swiftverse


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